


Fever Dreams

by ToLiveForWells



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Me: writes infinite stan fics, No Apologies, Other, all of the fics waiting to be finished and requests in my inbox: is this bitch forreal?, hi yes this is purely self indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToLiveForWells/pseuds/ToLiveForWells
Summary: Winters in Oregon were harsh and cold, but the warmth of a gruff old con artist somehow managed to keep you warm when you were feeling your worst.





	Fever Dreams

The winters in Oregon were far from what you were used to back east where winters were changeable, sometimes warm, sometimes bitter. Oregon winters were a constant flurry of whipping winds and falling snow. The few days when the sun showed its yellow face, Stan Pines would step outside and attempt to clean the heavy snow from the roof, trying his best to prevent the seemingly inevitable collapse of the ceiling. 

You watched him from the ground, shielding your eyes with your hands as the bright sunlight shone off of the white, glimmering snow. You didn’t know where Ford went, his tracks led into the woods in uneven steps as the deep snow drifts threw his gait off balance. Stan was grunting and groaning from the roof, a plastic shovel in his gloved fists, doing his best to heave the wet snow off the roof. 

You couldn’t help but smile, watching his broad shoulders straining against the weight of the snow. Your mindless gaze was interrupted by a shout from above. You looked up just in time to see a mound of snow drop onto your chest, knocking you to the ground, the snow sliding down your shirt sent chills down your spine. It was dark for a moment until you heard the grunts of Stan from above, his hands came into view a moment later as he freed you from your snowy world. 

“Hey, you okay kid? I didn’t mean to knock the wind outta you quite like that.” Stan’s hand was held out to you, a strange mix of concern and hidden laughter played out in his eyes. 

You took his hand and he pulled you up, brushing the snow from your shoulders. “I’m fine, Stan, don’t worry. Just a bit uh,” you pulled a wad of snow from the back of your jacket, “chilled?” 

Stan let out a hearty laugh, giving you a solid pat to your back, more snow falling from your jacket. “Hey, head inside and make some cocoa, would you? I’m sure Sixer is gonna be back any minute now and we can’t have two cold and tired Pines on our hands. You know how that is.” 

You grimaced just a bit, remembering the bitter winter last year when both Stan and Ford came down with a chest cold. Ford did everything in his power to insist he was fine, including jumping out of bed and running to the frigid basement, attempting to research a cure for the common cold. You had to forcibly drag him, half asleep and hack coughing, back to his room, threatening to change the password to the basement if he didn’t stay put. 

Stan, on the other hand, refused to move from bed for two straight weeks. Every time he needed anything, your name seemed to reverberate through the entire house. Stan’s gruff voice was even harsher with the strain from the coughing. The cold, dry air that drifted through the cracks of the old house definitely didn’t help. Up and down the steps you ran, getting Stan everything he asked you for. You were still shocked you managed to overcome the ordeal without getting sick yourself and within a month, things resumed as usual until spring arrived, which was always when things started getting busy around the Mystery Shack. Dipper and Mabel would come back to Oregon, each year growing taller, more mature, but still the same, happy, lovable twins that they always were. 

But right now, the skies were darkening, growing heavy with another impending foot or more of snow on its way. You judged Stan with a smile before heading into the Mystery Shack. You shook the snow from your jacket, a chill finding its way in after you as you shook the rest of the wet, melted lumps of snow from your back. Inside you felt much warmer, maybe a bit too warm. You wiped your brow, suddenly realizing the beads of sweat that were forming across your nose. You frowned as you came to notice the scratching sensation creeping up the back of your throat. 

“Just the cold air,” you said to yourself, making your way into the kitchen, “I never get sick.” 

You set a pot on the stove and twisted the knob. The burner clicked then the flames jumped around the base of the pot. You poured some milk into the pot, letting the steam waft up into your face, breathing in the warmth. From the front of the house you heard the door slam, boots stomp, and the sound of the vending machine door scrape open as Ford trudged back downstairs, most likely with the snow golem he was chasing for weeks back in January. 

The shuffling of bedroom slippers from behind indicated the approach of your favorite of the Pines. You cast a glance over your shoulder as Stan appeared in the doorway, landing himself at the kitchen table with a heaving sigh. “Is the cocoa ready? My entire body feels like it’s gone stiff and frozen over. And this time it’s not a euphemism for anything.”   
You rolled your eyes with a slight shake of your head, an affectionate smile still creeping across your face as you tossed in a few pieces of milk chocolate, a few pieces of dark, and one piece of white chocolate. Your famous blend that Stan loved. The chocolate melted quickly, thickening the milk into a silky smooth brown that you poured into three mugs you sat on the table with a clunk. 

You cleared your throat, the scratch now turning into a painful stinging that you tried to ignore. “Where’s Ford?” You asked, blowing the steam off the mug. 

“Eh,” Stan shrugged, “he said he’d be up in a second, he had to secure whatever ridiculous nerd shit he found out there in the woods.” 

As you attempted to reply, the hot chocolate seared the back of your throat. The cocoa sputtered back up and across the table as you coughed. You covered your mouth with your hand, reaching for a napkin to clean up what mess you made. 

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Stan’s hand reached around you and settled on your back between your shoulders. 

You opened your mouth, another cough heaving forth from your chest. You cleared your throat again, “yeah, yeah I’m fine, just a tickle in my throat.” 

Stan, the ever observant man he was, gazed upon your red flushed face with a look of obvious disbelief. His hands, rough and calloused from work and the dry winter air, laid across your forehead. “Fine, huh?” He muttered as he stood, shuffling through the drawers in the kitchen until a small victorious “ah-ha” ceased the searching. 

Stan handed you a mercury thermometer that he dusted off on his shirt. You frowned, no wonder you got sick given this man’s cleanliness standards. You opened your mouth as Stan tucked the thermometer under your tongue, the cold taste of metal, and some lint, hit your mouth as Stan sat back, watching the thermometer. 

You sat there, feeling someone self-conscious as Stan watched your face intently. Your eyes kept meeting his own, his stare seemed to make you feel even hotter than your definite fever. You stared down at your own hands, still feeling his gaze on you. Another minute passed and your eyes stayed focused on your hands. You felt Stan’s hand touch your chin lightly, turning your head to face him. You blushed, though you couldn’t tell under the bright red of your burning face, as Stan pulled the thermometer from your mouth.   
Without a word, Stan stood and rinsed the thermometer before turning to you. “Up.” 

“What?” You turned in your seat to look at Stan who stood by the sink, his finger pointed out the door into the hallway. 

“You’re sick, kid, you gotta fever. Up. To. Bed.” 

While you didn’t appreciate being treated like a child, his commanding tone seemed to force you up to your feet, following the direction of his pointing finger. You trudged up the steps, suddenly feeling like all of your energy was just zapped from your body. Stan walked behind you, his hand resting on the small of your back, guiding you up the steps and to your room. Stan yanked back the covers from your bed as you practically fell into the cool sheets. 

“Okay, now you rest, and whatever you need, I got you.” 

You suddenly sat upright, “oh shit, Stan I can’t be sick now. For fuck’s sake, last time I tried to leave you in charge you managed to give yourself food poisoning because you forgot how to cook without me around.” 

“Hey,” Stan sounded offended, “that was one time, okay? Listen, I got Ford here too, I can’t mess up that bad this time around. Besides, you need to rest, obviously. I’ll make you soup, or uh, something.” 

You groaned at the idea of Stan cooking anything at the moment. It wasn’t to say he couldn’t cook. He could, quite well, but given who he was, everything he made was rich and heavy. You didn’t mind when you didn’t feel inches away from death itself. 

“Hello? Hey, where did everyone get off to?” Ford’s voice drifted up from downstairs. 

“Up here, dingus,” Stan yelled out the door. 

Footsteps pounded up the steps and Ford appeared in the doorway, his six fingered hands resting on the frame, “what’s wrong? Are they okay?” 

Ford crossed the floor, stationing himself at the other side of the bed, his hands, which were freezing, pressed against your cheek and forehead, “good God, they’re burning up.” He looked at Stan, “how did this happen?”

“Woah, don’t blame me, Sixer. I don’t control the germs, do I?” 

“That’s not what I mean, Stanley, you shouldn’t have let them hang around outside for so long and-” 

“I’m not the kid’s babysitter, listen here you-....”

The bickering back and forth was making your head feel as if it were swelling up by the second, but it was almost comforting to know how much they both cared for you, but none quite like Stan. Your relationship went back about three years now. You were working at the diner with Lazy Susan when Stan, Dipper, and Mabel appeared. Stan settled himself at the counter with a coy and flirtatious grin, that you later learned to love, and leaned in, “heya toots,” he winked, “how’s about you get me a nice, strong glass of the most expired apple juice you got?” 

The vision of Stan, disheveled in that moment, grey hair sticking out in every direction under that odd fez, was endearing now, but at the time you felt repulsed. “Listen, sir,” you stepped back from the counter, “this is a diner, we don’t sell any expired apple juice. If there’s something you actually want, ask Lazy Susan.” 

You started to walk away but heard Stan sputtering from behind you, “hey uh, wait no, I didn’t mean to, I mean, I guess I did mean to but I didn’t mean it to sound so… Creepy.” 

You had turned to see Stan’s shoulders slouch and then immediately tense as Lazy Susan approached. “Kids,” he stood suddenly, “time to go.” 

The two children with him protested fervently as he dragged them out, casting one last look back at you before hurriedly pushing the kids out the door.   
In the weeks following, Stan would appear, almost regularly. Sometimes he would arrive dressed as “Mister Mystery,” the owner of the Mystery Shack. Other times, he’d come in as “Grunkle Stan,” the great uncle of the two kids with him, whom you later learned were Dipper and Mabel Pines, the grandkids of Stan’s brother, Shermie.   
It was unintentional for you to end up feeling the way you did for Stan. After a few weeks of apologetic pleas and sympathetic, begging looks from Stan, and the kids, you finally began to warm up to the family. You were just a grad student, trying to make ends meet, Stan was easily old enough to be your father, but you couldn’t help but fall for his forward, sometimes grotesque ways. Towards the end of the summer, Stan offered you to come work the Mystery Shack next year instead of the diner. You were more than happy to oblige, eager to escape the hot, greasy stench of the diner, and Lazy Susan. 

The following summer you took up residence at the Mystery Shack. Though nothing formal ever occurred between yourself and Stan, there was some unspoken agreement between the two of you, as you both acknowledged your affection for each other without making it incredibly obvious. You and Stan would steal away in the late evening, each giving some barely passable excuse and driving off in separate directions, only to meet at some dingy bar for drinks.   
From there, everything fell into place and you became a staple of the Pines household, cooking meals, repairing what needed to be repaired when Soos was away, and generally watching Stan as he went about his tours. The tourists ate up every word out of Stan’s mouth and you loved to watch his nearly hypnotic methods of manipulation. He was a real silver tongue. 

Things admittedly grew tense once Stanford returned, but even that didn’t limit your affections for Stan. Stan grew tense during this time, often irritable and angry, but your calm, soothing presence always managed to calm him down, at least for a while. Ford and Stan were at each other’s throats throughout the summer, but by its end, everything seemed to settle back into a new, but familiar pace. Now here you were, two years later, a Pine on each side, yelling over you about how to best care for your simple passing flu. Freeing yourself from your passing memories, you held up your hands in a weary white flag. Both brothers ceased their bickering and looked at you, concern clear in Ford’s eyes, mild irritation in Stan’s, as he was sure he was winning his argument. 

“Guys, can you please just, I don’t know, get me some juice or something, I really just need to rest and you guys aren’t really helping.” 

Ford straightened, “oh, of course, how silly of…. Stan, I’ll go fix you something that’ll have you feeling better in a jiffy!” 

“Please, nothing with science in it!” You leaned forward to yell to Ford, a hitch in your breath causing another bout of coughing. 

Stan’s hands push back on your shoulders, easing you to lay back flat with a groan, “hey, don’t wear yourself out, you gotta rest yourself if you’re gonna get better any time soon.”   
You sighed letting yourself close your eyes, Stan’s hand lingered on your shoulder and made its way into your hand. His fingers closed around your hand, the rough skin of his thumb rubbing across the top of your hand. Maybe it was just the fever, but your heart was skipping beats. You opened your eyes to find Stan staring at your hand, his eyes watching his own thumb move back and forth. 

“Stan?” 

“Hm? Oh, sorry, too much?” 

You felt his hand loosen but you caught his hand before he could let go, “no, no. It’s fine. You’re fine, Stan. Are you fine?” 

His eyes moved up to look at you, a forlorn look graced his weathered face as a sad smile appeared, “yeah, I’m fine kid.” 

Stan brought your hand to his lips, his stubble scratching across your skin as he placed a soft kiss on your hand. 

Your fingers laced around his, “I love you.” Your voice was raspy and barely above a whisper but it was just enough for him to hear.   
He smiled, “ I love you too.”

Still feeling stuck in a fever dream, your head spun hearing those words from his lips. His free hand gently touched your warm face. His own cheeks were blushed, hopefully not with a temperature. You wanted to hear him say it again and again. You wanted to hear that rough old voice tell you over and over again that he loved you. It didn’t feel real, yet there you lay in bed, looking up into the face of an old man who now beamed down at you, filling your heart with a warmth you could never hope to explain.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, I haven’t written fics in so long, I know, I’m awful. And here I am, posting a fic that’s entirely unrelated to any of the fandoms usually connected to this blog/ao3 account, but somehow, here we are. Prepare, if you will, for extreme fluff and a soft, adorable Grunkle.


End file.
